Devil's Child
by SilverSatori
Summary: "You are not supposed to exist." Enrico Maxwell knows that from a young age. Alone with his mother Chiara, rejected and despised, he experiences things no child should bear, always trying to make the best of the nightmare he lives in. But is there still a chance for him? Or was he already condemned before he was born?
1. The day that never comes

This story has been wandering in my mind for weeks, including some of the key scenes in detail. I'm fascinated with Enrico (and fell in love with him when I saw him as a child in OVA 6 and 8) and always wanted to do more backstory. There are a lot of takes on that, but they mostly concern his life in the orphanage. I wanted to do something earlier. There's nothing known about his family, except that he was an illegitimate child and I think that's a pity.

In my eyes, he looks around 8 in the flashback, so I'm running with that. Speaking of which, am I the only one who thinks he looks incredibly creepy as a kid? Especially in the manga. But he's still one of the most interesting characters, if that is possible in Hellsing.

I will cease my babbling for now. Have fun!

* * *

 **Devil's child  
**

 _Enrico glared at the white sheet on his desk, then at the pencil he was holding way too tight. He forced himself to relax his hand a bit. The wood creaked. This shouldn't scare him. Damn it, he wasn't scared! Just angry. No, not even that. Just annoyed. This was stupid. After twenty-two years he should be over the past for good. Well, except he saw it every time he turned his back to the mirror and made the effort to look at it. A little reminder of where he came from._

 _Outside, the noises of Rome had dimmed to the usual nightly level. It was late. He would be dead tomorrow, but that was nothing new. He wouldn't be able to sleep anyway. Or, more exact, he didn't want to. That would bring back things he liked buried. That had been buried. He sat the pencil down and began to write._

* * *

I'm not sure why I'm writing this down at all. Maybe to get rid of it, after such a long time. And because Lisa told me to. Now that my mother... no, that Chiara dei Fiori appeared again, surely drawn in by my success, maybe it's time I finally close this file, once and for all. The file Enrico Maxwell, the devil's child, bastard son of a Vatican cardinal and his cousin.

* * *

 _There, that was not so bad. At least he had written_ something _. It was a stupid introduction, sure, but he didn't intend to show this to anyone and it was a lot better than "My name is Enrico Maxwell and I had a really crappy childhood." That sounded like an autobiography. He would write one someday, but now he was way too young for that._ _It would show bad taste._ _And when he did, Chiara would not get a major part in it. Once he was done, he would take the pages, rip them into tiny pieces, and burn them. And then this was over forever. He snorted and tapped the table with the back of the pencil. What was it supposed to help to write down what happened? Everyone who was important knew anyway. It had been more than twenty years. And despite the scar he would forever bear... Why had the nightmares come back, after such a long time?_

That bitch! _, he thought. His hand clenched around the pencil again. It quivered, but the wood was tough and didn't break yet. Fine then, he would go through his memories one last time, like Anderson had advised him, like Renaldo had advised him and Lisa and... As if they had an idea. He should have never told them. But the lack of sleep made him careless. That was dangerous for an Iscariot. He looked at the paper in disgust, but he knew where he had to start. So he did. The sooner he got this done, the better. He had already wasted enough time._

* * *

My earliest clear memory is actually a good one. At least it starts off sort of good. I must have been around four or five, and my father took me and my mother for a ride in his car. A dark red cabriolet, and a fast one. My mother didn't own a car and for me it was like flying on a magic carpet. On that day, I sat in her lap and she hugged me. You see, my mother was never acting particularly tender towards me, but on that day, she tried her best. Father said something and she laughed. I thought she was very pretty. She looked a bit like me, or rather I look like her. She was a typical Italian with dark hair and tanned skin, but she had really bright green eyes. I inherited those, along with the tan. The blond hair I got from my father. Genetically a really slim chance, right? By now my hair got a bit darker, but when I was a child, it was platinum blond, almost silver. Might be one of the reasons I was called a devil's child even before it became known I was a bastard.

I don't remember a lot about my father. I know what he looked like from photos, but my own memories are blurry. He was more than twice my mother's age and for a child like me that was incredibly old. He was tall, meaning he looked gigantic. The day he took us for a ride was the last I saw him. He used the photos for a bit of publicity. I looked it up. Nobody knew I was his son, not just a random child receiving his 'charity'. The public doesn't know to this day.

My father was Cardinal Pietro Gioffredo Maxwell. When he met my biological mother, he was 42 and still a bishop. Chiara was 17. Sure, it must have been difficult being pregnant when you didn't even finish school. And being a single mum in conservative times was even harder. Somehow, I think, she managed to hide it from everyone – friends, parents, whatever. She went to a convent for half a year, again with the help of my father. After that, she came home with me, claimed she had a divine vision and agreed to raise me as her own. That's what it says in the paper. We Maxwells seem to have a thing with publicity. I don't know how everyone reacted to that, but the fact that she ended up mostly alone except for my father's financial help speaks volumes, right? Even in a pious family you can only go so far. Aside of that it became clear quickly we had to be related.

So the first years were rough, but acceptable, I guess. They continued their relationship. I can't and don't want to guess the nature, but I suppose from Chiara's side it was mostly about the money. She never finished school, so she needed it. I remember what she told me. Back then I didn't understand it, of course, so she could feel perfectly fine rambling about it to me. And him? What do I know what happens in the brain of a middle-aged bishop having a child with his teenage lover? He broke his vow and I suppose it was not for the first time. Only this time he hadn't paid attention once and that had highly inconvenienced him.

(I'm not claiming I'm better. Seems to run in the family. But at least I have different reasons than pure lust. I'm not excusing myself. I'm merely stating I know who I broke my vow for and I don't regret it.

...Okay, sometimes I do. But then I'm with her and I forget about that. Also, just for the record, I'm only five years older. And we're really careful. Dio mio, why am I writing this in the first place? Oh well, I'm going to burn it anyway, so I can write whatever I choose to. Isn't that the point of the whole thing?)

Where was I? Right, that day in the cabriolet.

Pietro took us out for a ride and brought us to a resting place off the highway with a lovely view. He ruffled my hair and told me I should go and catch a few insects or something. (That's a quote. I'm not sure if he ever played outside as a child, but insects were not my biggest interest.) So I ran around a bit and looked busy. But I also listened to them. Talk about me being a scheming little bastard, to quote an old, now "unfortunately" deceased colleague. I suppose there's some truth in it after all, except for the obvious. (God, if I'm starting to make stupid jokes now I can just go and try to catch some sleep after all.)

So my father dumped her. Sure, I didn't really understand the concept at that time, I remind you, I was not older than five at the most, but I understood that he didn't want to see us anymore.

Chiara got really upset and screamed at him until the other people, those resting from a hiking trip or in their cars like us, had decided to get away and leave us alone. Fast. It was a lot of "How can you?" and "Why didn't you tell me" and nasty insults. Pietro stayed astoundingly calm. He only slapped her when she got hysterical. She calmed down a bit when he told her she would still get her money, as long as she kept their secret. He offered to get her a well-paid job. And then they looked at me and I was not really convincingly pretending to be busy looking at the view. They might as well have pondered on killing or getting rid of me in another way. I don't know. Just leaving me at the roadside, maybe. You know how they say children know more than they understand? It's true. Otherwise I can't explain how I knew this. And it was enough to scare me.

Pietro drove us home. Chiara hadn't said a word the whole drive and didn't until we went inside. Then she threw down her bag and started to cry. She screamed incoherently for a while, stomping around, ripping photos apart, the whole package. I sat on the couch the whole time and listened in silence. I wasn't stupid. She got rough when she was angry and I didn't want to risk that.

So after a while she calmed down a bit. And I made my first mistake. I asked her if I should make her a tea. And yes, I could already do that at the age of five. Sometimes she forgot all about me and I had no other choice than to learn the most basic things.

She was standing at the window smoking and seemed to realize I was there for the first time. I find it hard to describe what her gaze looked like. Disgusted, maybe. Something close to hate. I'm not sure. I only know I was scared.

"Devil's child," she said after a while. That was something I had been called a few times and she had explained what it meant. A bastard like me wasn't even supposed to live. I was a mistake, a silly twist of fate, worth nothing than being spat upon. The devil had created me to ruin her life. (Again, I'm quoting. You don't forget words like that easily, even when you're a small child.)

She smiled and that scared me even more because it was not a real smile. "Your mommy has been bad," she said with that nasty smile. She stubbed out the cigarette and closed the window. "Not only had she a relationship with a holy man, no, she had a relationship with her _freaking cousin_. And then we have you." She sat down on the couch. I made my second mistake. I slid away, just few centimetres until the armrest was in my way, because I was scared. She grabbed my arm so tight I think I could hear my bones crack. She pulled me to her. I vividly remember the smell of her cigarettes. I didn't scream. I didn't make any sound. I knew she didn't like that.

"A goddamn incest child," she said and laughed. It was a mixture of a laugh and a sob and an angry scream, I think. Either way, she tugged at my clothes, and examined me like I was a lab rat she saw for the first time. "Aren't kids like you supposed to be ugly, or silly? I could just drown you. Oops, sorry, my son was mentally challenged, it was an accident." She laughed again and pinched me. I yelped a bit and she glared at me. "Shut up. You're too stupid to understand it anyway, so just shut. Your. Mouth."

I hadn't understood most of it, she was right about that. I didn't understand why she was angry or what was wrong about her relationship. He was a priest, a bishop with a career to tend to. As I said, I was highly inconvenient. It meant he couldn't just pay her off. That they were cousins added insult to injury, so to say. And, to get something down I really never dared to speak aloud so far, from a biological point of view, I'm a lucky bastard. (Weird in how many ways you can use that word.) I'm clever, I'm good-looking, what more could I ask for? Could have been very different.

Pietro was Chiara's grand-cousin or something, I think. I've never really understood more than the basics of the family who's who. He was the cousin of Chiara's mother. The family branches were estranged, which explains why they didn't know each other. And when I'm already at it, he was the nephew of Giacomo Maxwell, the archbishop who led my section during the Second World War and who helped Millennium escape. Isn't that great? (Warning: Heavy sarcasm was activated. Use at own risk.)

God, I'm tired. I want this to be done for, but I'm not even at the beginning of the Really Bad Times. Did I really just capitalize that?

So, I made my third mistake. I asked: "Will Papà come to visit us again?" I hadn't even the time to flinch. She slapped me. Hard. I bit my lip (couldn't talk for two days), but I only noticed it later. I think I hit my head or something and that was that.

Just for the record, she apologized. I woke up the next day, after more than fifteen hours, with a brimming headache, the taste of copper in my mouth and unsure what year it was. Chiara had given me two ice packs, one for my head and one for my lip. Didn't help a lot, but she got me chocolate ice cream and I watched a movie with her. I think it might have been The Sword in the Stone. It was good enough to make me forget the pain for a while. I think I scared her, passing out like that. I was dizzy for days after, probably from a concussion. We didn't go to the hospital though and it got better soon. Talk about luck. I could have been dead and that would have been serious trouble for her.

As I got older, things like that became more frequent. She was careful I didn't hit my head again or got any serious injuries that would need to be treated, but otherwise... I'm not saying I was that particularly great either. I was afraid and obeyed every command as well as I could, but that was about it. I knew I shouldn't get close to her after three or four pm, when she had downed the first bottle of what looked like water, but wasn't. It got gradually worse, but that doesn't mean she needed to drink to be a nasty bitch. Begging only made her more angry and I stopped with that soon. It was easier and less painful to just bear it out.

Reasons? Who needs reasons? But well, let's try to list a few things. I didn't obey quick enough, various times. I said something at the wrong moment, often enough, less frequent when I stopped talking to her altogether unless I really had to. Once I spilled a glass of milk. She came in while I was cleaning up and tripped over me because she was shit-faced drunk again. Oh and then I got a really bad stomach flu. I could barely walk. She gave me warm water with mustard. You know what that does? Exactly. I made it to the bathroom in time, but that didn't matter for her. The act itself was a violation of her orders. I was allowed to sleep afterwards, but I had to sleep on my belly, although that is not very helpful when you're sick. The list goes on and on, until I was around seven. Might have been shortly before my seventh birthday. I never celebrated them, so I'm not sure. Was too much work for her, I suppose, especially since it's the 25th of December.

Funny, if you think about it. I was a Christmas Child. Not really the present Chiara wanted, I can imagine. And she didn't really celebrate Christmas either. I only knew I'd be a year older when we went to a really festive mass and all that. It might be a surprise, but Chiara wasn't religious. I didn't grow up in a pious household. That was all my own interest. Bible class in school did the trick. My teacher noticed my interest. He gave me a bible and I should read a different chapter every week. I did and memorized all of it. My teacher was Marco Renaldo, by the way. He was helping out in the school at that time. He was surely not the first person to notice how strange I behaved, how I sat in a weird way sometimes and definitely not the first to notice all the bruises I couldn't cover up, especially in summer. But he was the first one who cared. I looked in the files, he was the one to pose a request to the... what's the word? In English it's youth welfare office. At least google tells me so.

Anyway, he wanted to help me. But it's not that easy. Chiara got wind of it and expected a visit any time. It was astounding. A little clap here and there – but that was it. My bruises and scratches disappeared. She even let me grow my hair a little bit. I got ice cream and a new notebook for my studies. The visit came. I didn't speak up. I know that was stupid, but as much as I hated living with her, I didn't want to get her into trouble. And so far, no adult had helped me a great deal if I ever complained. I was a kid. Nobody took a child seriously.

And you know what's the funny part? I still loved her, the way kids do, no matter how often she hurt me. I wanted to please her at any cost. All I wanted was a "Ben fatto, Enrico". That's not so much, right? I remember feeling like I was going to drift off the ground in happiness when she thanked me once for bringing her a glass of water for her hangover.

So, visit came and went, nothing happened.

Now I took way too far ahead. That was later. I got into school when I was (still) five and things got worse. At first I had thought school would be great. I would learn a lot and much more important, I was away from Chiara half the day, if not longer. Didn't really work out like that. I was an outsider from the beginning. I'm pretty sure that's because the parents talked and the kids listened, in particular the older ones. About my mother. As I said, those were more conservative times, even the mid-nineties. And my silver-blond hair made me stand out even more. My mo- Chiara always took care I had it really short, because - she said - if she wanted a girl she would tell me.

So, people talked. I got called a lot of names, but I mostly ignored them. The other kids were just so... dull. I was half a year to almost a year younger than them, but they all appeared so slow and stupid to me. I overtook them after a few weeks. My teacher, Signorina Pavetta, was basically the first person who ever praised me. You can't imagine how happy I was. When I went home I was too occupied with that to realize the mood m-

Damn it. She's not my mother.

\- the mood _Chiara_ was in. She was half-drunk and trying to clean up. I didn't realize it quickly enough and told her about how much I'd been praised. Got me a few bad hits with the tube of the vacuum cleaner. My knee hurt for a week and I scratched my arm when I tripped. I told Signorina Pavetta I'd fallen down the stairs. Chiara told me so. She always told me what to say. Sometimes I had to adjust the story a bit. She wasn't really good at keeping track of what she had already used as a cover story or what simply sounded stupid to any sober person.

It wasn't always like that. I knew when to tell her things and when I better stayed quiet, and once I got a chocolate ice cream after I'd scored full points on a test.

The winter came and it got easier to cover up all the bruises. Then my mother ran into the parents of an older child I knew – the school bully Romeo, like Romeo and Giuliette, just less romantic. And the parents talked about her. She was not drunk, but didn't look really presentable either and made the mistake of slapping me in front of everyone. Not very hard, more a warning little clap, but that was enough for Romeo to pick up my trail. He didn't leave me alone. However he got that out, he spread around that I was a bastard child. He liked to remind everyone I shouldn't live, laughed at everything I did and called Chiara a puttana. Well, he was certainly right about that last bit, but back then it made me angry. And he told everybody I got beat by girls. That made me the main target for anyone in a bad mood. The adults only intercepted when it was looking like we would actually break into a brawl. I was never a fighter and preferred to run. So the adults never really learned of this. I was too embarrassed to ask for help anyway. That was basically how it went the whole winter, until it was spring again.

I did have a friend, or what I perceived as a friend at that time. He was one of those clever kids that always get bullied, just like me. His name was Massimo. One day, I asked Chiara if I could bring him home. She said yes and cleaned the whole apartment. She didn't drink. I even got new jeans. But on our way home we ran into Romeo. I tried to ignore him. By then I didn't care anymore what he called me or Chiara. I had stopped crying in secrecy (at school, I have to add. If I'd cried at home, Chiara would have beaten the shit out of me. She hated noise.) He didn't deserve that much attention. But he pushed me and I fell. I scraped my knee. This was in itself not so bad. It didn't even hurt a lot. Romeo seemed disappointed I didn't scream or started to cry. I just got up again and told Massimo we would go. Romeo grabbed his arm and then made the mistake of trying to grab the collar of my shirt. I punched him in the face. Hard.

I don't think he expected anything from me, the least of which was a counter attack. But I punched him, like I had seen it on TV when Chiara had fallen asleep late at night. My hand cracked and I couldn't move it for three days, but hell, it was satisfying. His nose bled when he fell down. He looked up at me with huge dark eyes (I remember that very well for some reason), already staring to cry, and then he scrambled up and ran back to school, yelling I would regret that. And I did.

Massimo and I stayed out a few more hours. I didn't want to go home, for a good reason. I was thinking about buying the same trousers again so she wouldn't notice, but I didn't have any money. Romeo had been taking most of it since school began, the rest I had managed to hide. But to get it, I had to get past him and that was out of the question. He would have assembled his gang by now.

So Massimo said goodbye and had to go home. It was getting dark. Not that Chiara cared particularly about the time I came home, but I was getting hungry. If she was asleep, maybe I could make myself a sandwich or something. She liked to cook pudding, too, maybe some of it wasn't spoiled yet. I'd have to find out.

Chiara was not asleep. She was sitting at the kitchen table, the phone in her hand. And she looked angry. I was close to running out again. I had been thinking about running away for a while and was gathering all the money I got. Maybe I could get away and find somebody nicer. I was a tall boy, I was clever, I learned quickly. Fifty years ago that wouldn't have been a problem. Nobody cared about brats like me anyway.

Then I saw the little box with all the small coins I had collected on the table and my heart made a nosedive through the floor. So much for that. Chiara stubbed out her cigarette and stood up. Her eyes found the torn jeans and she looked even more angry. "I should have known," she said. She was speaking very quietly and that was the worst. She only spoke like that when I was in serious trouble. It had happened once, and I didn't want to experience that again. I stood there and the door fell shut behind me. I didn't dare to move. I don't think I could have.

"I should have known you would be a failure." She stopped in front of me and I realized she was sober, maybe the first evening in weeks. That was bad. When she was drunk, she didn't hit so hard. Sometimes she missed me and hit something else without noticing. I had learned to use that.

At first she didn't make a move. "What happened?", she asked and pointed at my trousers.

"Romeo pushed me," I said truthfully. She nodded, as if she already knew that.

"The same Romeo you beat up this afternoon?"

I hesitated. What should I say about that? "He pushed me first." I didn't want it to sound defiant, but it didn't really work. But instead of slapping me, she only nodded again. Half of me was almost relieved. The other half dreaded something awful. Turned out the distrustful part of me was right.

"So, he pushed you first? And you ripped your trousers. And then you beat him?"

"I punched him in the face. Then he ran away. I- I just wanted him to leave me alone. He always picks on me." Chiara looked at me and her eyes were strangely calm. I remember that, because I felt really cold at that sight. My knees were actually trembling a bit. I don't think I had been that afraid of her in months. Sometimes I look in the mirror and see those eyes on myself. They're very green, almost emerald-coloured. I don't actually hate it, they suit me well. But I can't help to be reminded of her and that _is_ something I hate.

"Signorina Pavetta said he has bruises all over him. They want me to come to the school."

"That wasn't me! He's the one who always beats me-" I shut up when she raised her hand. Not that the bruises I got from him were obvious. They disappeared under all the rest.

"Go to your room and wait for me there," she said. I hastily took off my shoes and coat and went there. I had my own little room, not much more than a big closet, really, but it was mine. Clothes, the few things I had for school and all the trinkets I had collected over time. Most of it was strewn about. She had searched my room pretty thoroughly when she dug up my box of money.

I sat on the bed, drew my knees to my chest and got my little notebook from bible class. The first part was homework, but in the back, I had drawn pictures I remembered from walking past the science rooms. There were posters from the older classes, electrical circuits and all that. Father Renaldo had explained them to me and sometimes I drew one myself and asked him if it was right. I was always interested in that, almost as much as in the bible. But I had no real possibilities to learn about it when I was that age. Obvious reasons. I was working on a big and complicated circuit at that time and couldn't wait to show it to Father Renaldo when it was done.

Anyway, I was glad to escape into concentration for a while. I didn't hear Chiara until she took the notebook from my hands. She closed it, read the cover (Studio Della Bibbia, Enrico Maxwell, Classe 2c, Padre Renaldo) and ripped it in half. It might sound silly, but it hurt more than if she had hit me. I had worked so much on that. But I didn't say anything, although I had tears in my eyes. Chiara saw that. Did I mention she despised it when I cried?

She didn't even touch me. "Stand up." I did, though my legs were shaking more than a little bit by now. "Take off your shirt." I did. I opened the buttons and wanted to put it on the chair, but Chiara just took it from me and threw it on a heap. "Turn around." I did so. I don't think I knew what was coming. Maybe I didn't want to know.

"Lie down. And if you make a sound, you will regret it." All the time her voice was really calm. I heard a sliding sound, almost like a zipper, I couldn't really nail down, but of course I obeyed. What else was there to do?

I wrote that, after the visit from some official-looking guy, nothing changed. That's not true. Maybe some silly part of me had thought it would get better after she was so nice for a few weeks. The hope dies last or what does the proverb say? It didn't get better. It got a lot worse.

* * *

Damn. I can't believe I'm crying over this bullshit. I'm a grown man, not a whiny kid, for God's sake! I'm the leader of Iscariot. I should have thrown her into a dungeon when I had the chance. Goddamn bitch.

...

What does it matter after so many years? Lack of sleep is making me touchy, that's all. I'll get done with this now.

* * *

So, I laid down on the bed, my legs more or less still in the air. I was used to pain, that much should be clear. And I expected a hit. But it was a lot worse than I thought. Chiara used a thick leather belt, I'm pretty sure belonged to my father once. Expensive, thick, real leather. It whistled when it cut the air. That's no stereotype. And the bang when it hit me isn't either. I screamed. The pain was so sudden and sharp I couldn't help it. That moment I knew I had gotten myself in even more trouble.

"I told you to stay quiet," she said in that scary calm voice. I think she had taken pills or something. Otherwise I can't explain it. She hit again, and again. I think around fifteen times. I didn't count. I was way too occupied trying not to scream again. I might have passed out for a few seconds, I don't know. I'm not even sure how long it took. Couldn't have been more than a few minutes at the most. I just buried my face in my arms and clenched my teeth as hard as I could. It worked long enough she finally stopped.

"You can stand up now." I had trouble doing so. I could barely move at all without wanting to scream. I got a look at myself in the mirror. The usual bruises and the imprint of her hand on my arm didn't even compare to this. The belt was too broad to cut me, so my back didn't bleed or anything, but it was riddled with red stripes already turning purple. Imagine lava pouring over your back and drying there, but without cooling off. That was about how it felt.

Chiara looked at me and rolled up the belt. I was crying, more out of pain than anything else, without making a sound. "Now you have a reason to cry. Don't come out before school." And with that, she left me and closed the door. She took the torn notebook with her. I laid on my bed and cried. I was lonely, and angry, and hurting and wished her to hell, literally. When I was done, I read in my bible as well as I could without moving too much.

I didn't go to school the next day. After lying still for so long I couldn't move without screaming in pain, no matter how much I tried to contain myself. That was of course no excuse for Chiara, but the belt had brushed my neck and that bruise was impossible to cover up in this warm weather. So I stayed home for a few days. Nobody asked any questions, at least none that I heard. I was missing a lot in school anyway. I even had a permanent excuse for physical education class so nobody would see me undressed.

I mean, it was a perfect system, but with one flaw. She could explain a few bruises and scratches. Boys just were like that (except I was not). But all of that was impossible to conceal when I had my clothes off. So, no PE for me. I didn't really care. It hurt too much to move a lot most of the time.

Chiara used the belt occasionally, not as often as she could have, but she didn't hesitate either. It was for the bigger misadventures I got into. (Whatever she understood that to be.) Sure, when I got into a brawl with Romeo, this time for real, she took care of that. I had to apologize to him, he almost squished my hand, and I missed out on three days of school and the weekend. Stuff like that. What never changed was the ritual. I turned around, had to take off my shirt and lie on the bed. That was probably for the best. I learned not to scream pretty fast and the bed sheet helped me with that. Aside of that most of the time she just let me lie there and that was a blessing.

You know what's interesting? I never got any scars. All the beatings, bruises, scratches, they all disappeared. Sure, I had no time to admire that because I got new ones soon, but my skin seems to heal pretty well. And the belt, terrifying as it was, was the worst she could think up. Although she was a smoker and had her cigarettes at hand any time, I never got more of that than the smoke. Well, that's not true. She burned me once. She was drunk and let the cigarette fall. It hit my arm and she held it there for a moment. It hurt, like you might expect, but I didn't cry or anything and after a moment she went back to ignoring me. Maybe it was a test. Maybe she just didn't remember the next day. I only know that was the only time it happened.

Aside of that I only got to hear I was such a disappointment, I should never have lived, it was all so much work with a child, she could be rich, bla bla bla. Nothing new for sure. I'm not sure how she paid the rent and all. Sometimes she worked, but she stayed nowhere for long. Without the financial support of my father we wouldn't have made it. Not that most of that didn't go into whatever she needed to stand up in the morning and go through the day.

In the end, it got really hard for me to determine whether or not I could talk to her without being punished. Her moods changed so sudden it got next to impossible to guess a safe time. Sometimes she would break down crying and hug me, promising everything would be alright. When it happened the first time, that scared me more than when she was screaming at me what a useless brat I was. I hugged her back after a while, because (although she gripped me pretty tight and that hurt) it felt also kind of good. She was actually showing some kind of affection after all. I almost thought she didn't hate me. (You know how silly kids can be, right?) She twisted my arm so hard she sprained it. I had to go to the hospital. Luckily, it was the left one and I could still write.

That was how the first half of... I'm pretty sure it was 1995. Ah, no, 1996. I turned seven in December 1995. It's a bit confusing when your birthday is at the end of the year. Anyway, that was how the time passed. We got a new teacher at school after Father Renaldo had to go somewhere for a while. That was how I met Anderson. He gave me the same support Marco had and was even more worried about my home life. But also his hands were bound.

Oh, and did I already tell about my "friend" Massimo? He refused to talk to me after that day Chiara used the belt for the first time. He ignored me and sent me away when I tried to talk to him. A few weeks later, he left the school. I think he went to a boarding school or something. I never saw him again and ended up alone once more.

Well, what does "alone" mean? We hadn't been really close or anything. The difference was that I was sitting in the library reading my bible on my own instead of discussing things like the science books we found.

* * *

I'm too tired to bore myself with a detailed list of every beating I got from that day. I'm not sure if I could, and even if, the list would take the rest of the night. Let's get on with the important things. Chiara got worse, until she was a vegetable in front of the TV most of the time. That suited me perfectly well. I concentrated on my homework, stayed in school most of the time and occasionally cleaned up a bit without making too much noise.

It was on such a day I decided I wouldn't take this anymore. That sounds a lot more heroic than it was. It was moronic. I was a seven-year-old boy who weighed forty pounds at the most and although she was not particularly tall, unlike my father, she was heavier and stronger than me. I never had a chance. Then again, it never came to the great stand I wanted to make. That was three weeks before she brought me to Ferdinant Luke's.

Why so late? Well, because she didn't want anyone to see what she had done, of course. It was getting dark and I sat on my bed, writing in my notebook. It was a sort of homework-diary-sketchbook-thing, nothing of that and all of that. Alexander had asked a friend to teach me the basics of a computer. They were getting more mainstream at that time, although many still thought the internet was just a hype that would disappear soon enough. He thought it was a good way to occupy me and I was glad to be away from home.

So I was making my very first attempts at "programming" something. Remember how quiet Chiara was when she came in the first time? Well, this time she wasn't. She stomped in like an angry rhinoceros. And she had the belt in her hand. I winced, but then I remembered what I had decided and straightened up a bit. Chiara wanted to rip the notebook from my fingers – a notebook I had bought from my own hard-earned money. I didn't let go and took it back, shoving it under the pillow I more or less sat on.

Then everything was full of colorful stars and excruciating pain. I fell off the bed and to my knees. I don't think I screamed, I was way too stunned for that. The left side of my face was burning and I felt blood running over my fingers. I sat there for what seemed like an eternity, trying to understand what had happened. A slap was one thing, but she had always spared my face from anything too visible, for her own sake. And above all, it _hurt_ _._ Red was falling in drops on my hands. I was frozen, just able to stare at it.

To this day, I have no idea what made her so angry. I hadn't seen her since the evening before. Maybe it was simply my existence in general. Fact is, that she was so drunk she didn't notice she was holding the belt at the wrong end. Tell you what, getting a whipping with a leather belt is bad, really bad. But the steel buckle is even worse. And much more dangerous. I was incredibly lucky again. Whatever you can call luck when your mother hates you and doesn't only stick to words to convey that.

Chiara grabbed me by the shirt collar and dragged me on the bed again. She needed a few attempts to do so, but I was too confused and in pain to try an escape. The buttons were poorly fixed and broke. This time, I had a _very_ good idea what was going to happen next. I'd like to say I tried to make a stand, but damn, I was seven years old and terrified. I still remember the red that began to soak the gray bed sheet. Drop by drop, spreading on the less than clean linen. I'll never forget that. The realization that it was mine, that she had badly injured me.

She struck. At first I only heard the bang and a hit. I was completely numb with fear. That didn't hold for long. I felt blood run into my jeans and then the pain began. This time I screamed so loud I was hoarse for days after. Let's stick with the molten lava analogy. The belt was the lava that was on the surface, that had already cooled down a bit. This was more like the molten metals from the earth's core. It's a miracle I didn't pass out. Not a good one.

I thought: _She's going to kill me._ And I thought: _Then I'll be in heaven and she'll burn in hell._ That didn't provide the comfort you might think it would have. But it made me angry. I think that might have been the day I realized she had no right to treat me like that, no matter what the circumstances of my birth were.

Maybe what she had done had startled her. And somehow I managed to gather the strength to use it against her. I slid onto the floor and grabbed my shirt while running out. Running is the wrong word, it was more like a hasty staggering. We were living in an ancient apartment complex and the walls were thin. That might be one of the reasons Chiara had forbidden me to scream. I could hear voices outside. I didn't trust adults in general, but at that point I was too desperate to care. And I thought I heard Father Anderson's voice. He had said he would come over some time to look at my sketches. I hadn't told Chiara, of course.

I have only a vague memory of what happened after that. I think I reached the door and tried to open it. Chiara grabbed me and dragged me back to my room. I had lost the shirt on the way and when she ushered me to my blood-splattered bed I got a look of myself in the mirror. The belt had missed my eye by millimeters, but the pin of the buckle had left a long gash. Blood was running over my face and my cheekbone was already dark purple. Then she had hit me in the small of my back with the buckle, opening the skin from my right side under the ribs in a diagonal line to the left, just over my buttocks. I was a child with a vivid imagination, so in my panic I could have just imagined seeing my spine. Chiara shoved me on the bed, where I passed out.

* * *

That was the last real beating I got from her. Not because she came to her senses, no, by far not. But more on that later. For now let's just hold on to the fact that I was a backstabbing little cunt (another wonderful quote from my unfortunately deceased colleague) even at age seven.

I was out cold for more than a day. When I woke up, I could barely remember my name. My memories came back fairly quickly, but I didn't bother to tell Chiara. She had given me painkillers with the water, but by far not enough to block out all of it. I don't remember much about the days after, but Chiara seemed to get in ever more trouble to explain my absence in school. I'm pretty sure the gash on my back got infected and I definitely had a fever. On some day after that, my 'memory loss' hadn't gotten 'better' yet, I passed out for quite a while and she panicked. She called a cab, wrapped me into a few bandages, and drove me to a doctor. That alone says a lot. She carried me to the cab and I woke up because she was squeezing the wound and it hurt. A lot. I won't go into that much more, before I get sick thinking about it.

She drove me to the doctor and almost gave the nurse a heart attack. I must have looked pretty bad. The next thing I remember is the pain subsiding. I was lying on a operating table of some sort and the nurse – an older lady with a nice smile – told me it would be alright. My mother would be waiting for me outside, I didn't have to be scared. I'm not sure what I said, but her smile looked pained. The doctor made photos of my injuries and all the bruises and then treated them. He had to sow the cut on my back. I felt a lot better afterwards, that much was sure. I was able to sit up and he gave me ice cream for my rough throat. Then they asked me what had happened. And this time I told them everything, down to the last detail I remembered. I cried, but that was more for show than out of fear or pain. I was quite an evil brat and don't regret a bit.

Further, I made my stand when they brought me back so Chiara could take me home. Yes, after all that happened and I had told them, they sent me home with her. I wasn't scared or anything (though I pretended to be), just furious. As a child I didn't realize it, but they only wanted the best for me. They cared. But if Chiara had known I had told them everything, she might have made a rash decision. I guess they figured in the state I was in now, she wouldn't dare to hurt me even more. They were right.

Around three weeks after the 'incident' I was more or less on my feet again, for the first time in months with only the pale remains of bruises. The gash in my face had closed and would vanish completely over time. Not so the wound on my back. That scar remained. It reminds me of Chiara every time I look in the mirror. As I grew up it stretched and measures about thirty centimeters in length now. Against my relatively dark skin it's almost white. To put it simple: I despise it.

* * *

 _Enrico put down the pencil and yawned. It was the middle of the night by now. He wouldn't get any sleep after all, it seemed. Not that it mattered. That was not much less than he would have gotten anyway. He looked over the pages lying on his desk. More than ten pages fully filled in his curly handwriting. He couldn't believe he was doing this._

 _He wanted to push a strand of hair out of his eyes and winced as his fingers came back wet. For a short moment, he was caught in the horrific moments of his past. Then he realized it wasn't blood, but tears. Embarrassed, and more than glad nobody could see him, he wiped them away. The gesture was not as angry as it had been._

 _Enrico took a new page and pushed the other ones aside. But he hesitated. Instead of continuing to write, he took out a small key and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. Inside was a whole lot of miscellaneous things, on top of it all two notebooks. One of it had been ripped in half at some point. He opened the one that was still in one piece and leafed to the very back._

 _There was one sentence, written in thick red marker, almost like blood. The handwriting was clumsy, the curls and edges of a child that was still practicing._

No one will ever look down on me again.

* * *

One word for Chiara: Bitch.

Somewhere (could have been dA, I can't find the pic anymore, help! T_T) I saw a fanart how Enrico was abused by a priest in the orphanage, with bruises all over him. That brought me to write this down after all. It was a bit difficult to write first-person-perspective and to come up with a convincing scenario, since Enrico is the kind of guy who largely suppresses his feelings. So he's basically writing a letter to himself. Whatever floats your boat.

Sorry for all the Renegade references (to my readers: Sorry, but after a double-update I needed a break.) I thought the first part was largely canon. Apparently, I was wrong after checking it again xD Feel free to check out the story if you want to know more. *casually advertising*

Feedback? I'd love to know what you think. Wouldn't be the first time I got a good idea from a review / chat.

Until the next part. Ciao!


	2. Don't stop believing

Woohoo, only one day and already a review! Thank you!

EDIT: I checked this again and holy cow, how many typos o.O Should be fixed now.

As I mentioned before, this is an alternate universe, so things will go a bit different for little Enrico. But I won't say any more, have fun!

* * *

 _A weak smile flashed over Enrico's lips, not longer than the beat of a butterfly's wings. Truly, nobody looked down on him now. He had enemies, of course. Every great man had. But they didn't matter. He closed the notebook and put both of them back in the drawer, closed it and locked up. Now then, he had begun his tale, he would end it. Maybe afterwards he would be tired enough so he could sleep undisturbed. He sharpened the pencil once again and continued._

* * *

Then Chiara told me to pack everything I needed into a bag – books, notes, clothes. I did, and even snatched a few books I had always liked from her bookshelf. Chiara was no great reader and didn't notice. Still, the bag was not full when I was done. Only the bible I had gotten from Father Renaldo remained in my hand all the time. Chiara made me scrub myself clean so long it hurt (even though I was not allowed to shower, because of the stitches on my back) and put on my best clothes, including a new jacket she had gotten me. It was plain black, with a collar that resembled a priest's. I voiced that thought. Don't ask me how I knew she wouldn't be angry. She was, but she only smiled a fake and nasty smile. "A pious outfit for my pious boy. You're so much like your father." Her voice was full of disgust. Then she returned to brushing my hair back in silence. She had allowed me to let it grow a bit and feathered the ends out. I don't think I had looked that formal in my whole life.

She had called a cab and we drove into the heart of Rome. I could see the Sistine Chapel from where we were let out. Chiara carried my bag. I suppose I was just too slow for her taste. Even then she snapped at me I should hurry up. Walking so fast still hurt a lot, but I followed her command. I was curious where we would go. She surely hadn't made me look that presentable for another visit to the doctor. Some part of me wondered if we were going to see Pietro. I'm not sure what I expected.

We went into a building and up a few flights of stairs. I didn't have time to read the signs at the building or inside before Chiara grabbed my arm so hard it hurt and dragged me on. There was a waiting room there. We were alone except for a woman with her baby. She didn't look us in the eyes. Shortly after, she was called in and didn't come out anymore. A while later, the door was opened again and a woman with red hair and clothed in a nun's robe looked out. "Signorina Maxwell?"

"Wait here," Chiara told me. I was so startled I almost dropped my bible when she petted my hair. She even forced herself to some kind of smile. Chirara went in with the red-haired woman. She too didn't come out anymore. Many years later I helped Anderson clean out the rooms. There's a back door leading down to the lobby. That was how Chiara left me behind. A pat you can hardly call affectionate, a fake smile and a command. What else did I expect from her?

I had realized what happened even before the red-haired woman came out again. I had stopped reading and looked out the window. It had been sunny, that day in Rome when my mother left me. The Vatican's white monuments were glowing in the setting sun. It was a beautiful view.

"Enrico?" I didn't jump. I had seen her reflection in the window. Without a word I climbed down the chair and went back to pick my bible up.

Josephine Duvelle was a paladin that worked in the orphanage in between her missions, just like Anderson. When I first met her, she was around forty, and her long reddish hair was beginning to be streaked with gray. She smiled at me, but I was too angry to pay attention.

I hated Chiara, for everything she had been doing to me since I could remember. But I also loved her. She was my mother. She was the only person I had, the only one I knew. Being unable to predict someone's behavior scared me. And now I was all alone. Josephine knelt down and hugged me. It hurt my back, but I didn't say anything. I didn't say anything for more than two hours. Nor did I react when she introduced herself and stroked my hair. The look of pity in her eyes made me furious. She asked me if it was alright to wait until her replacement arrived. I nodded and went back to reading. Not the bible for once, just randomly one of the books I had snatched. It was Jules Verne's _Twenty Thousand Leagues Below The Sea_ if I remember correctly. I wasn't a fast reader but the story made me forget my own misery for a while. It's one of my favorite books to this day.

Eventually, the replacement came. The office was open 24 hours, in case an 'emergency' occurred – whatever that is if you want to leave your child behind without too many questions asked. I didn't check who it was. After a short conversation with Josephine he asked me if I could wait a while longer. I nodded without even looking up from my book. I only stopped reading when they were inside. Call me sneaky or whatever, I went to the door and listened.

"You know him, Sir?", Josephine asked.

"Yes, he was in the school I helped out. A very talented young boy... I'm glad he's away from his mother. Did you read the report?" There was silence and the ruffling of paper, so I supposed he looked through my file. "I think it is best if we keep him with somebody he knows."

"Will there be a trial?", Josephine asked.

"I don't know. Probably not."

She gasped. It was a sound I had heard often, particularly when Chiara was talking on the phone with her friends. That had been years ago, but I knew it always meant I shouldn't interrupt. "After all she did to the child? We have the evidence, he can make a statement! She can't get away with it!"

"Josephine," the man sighed. Just then I recognized the voice. It was Father Renaldo. And he was walking to the door. I sprinted back to my seat, trying to be quiet and had just opened my book again when Renaldo and Josephine came out.

"Hello Enrico," Renaldo said friendly. I looked up as if he had interrupted me. He smiled. "Shall we go?" I nodded, wondering where he would bring me. He took my bag and we went downstairs. There was a small Fiat parked on the street. He put my bag on the back seat and helped me climb in. The first minutes of the drive were silent.

"Does your back hurt?", he asked. I must have looked startled, because he smiled again to calm me, though I was not really upset. Of course he knew. "Your mother said you... fell." I just looked at him. He knew what had happened, but as long as they didn't recognize it, I wasn't going to talk about it either. I shook my head, although the wound was pounding badly from running around so much.

He looked at the road for a moment and swerved around an illegally parked Vespa. I only remember that because it was an ugly shade of pink. And I remember most of that day. "Do you understand what happened?"

"I'm not stupid," I snapped. Another topic that was quickly dropped.

"You wanted to show me something." I stared at him blankly for a few seconds, until I realized he was still talking about the sketch I had made when Chiara ripped the notebook in half. I had picked it out of the trashcan in secrecy and hidden. It was at the bottom of the bag, in the heap of clothes I had hastily thrown on top before she could see it. I shook my head again. Renaldo sighed and didn't ask any more questions.

We stopped in front of the orphanage at sundown. The air was a dark orange and leaves were swirling through the air. I could hear children running around laughing. The wind hit me square in the face when I climbed out and I staggered, my back screaming in pain. Despite that, I straightened up to my full four feet. I didn't want to make the first impression of being a weakling. Father Renaldo got my bag and opened the gate for me. The other children were way too wrapped up in their game to notice us. At the entrance to the orphanage, Father Anderson was awaiting me. I walked up to him, my head held as high as I could. I knew him, but he was still a somewhat threatening appearance. As I said, I had no trust in adults. Not in other children either, for that matter. And Anderson is really tall. I mean, I'm not small either, but he's still at least a foot taller than me. And back then I was just a child, so I was slightly spooked. But I wouldn't let him see that.

"This orphanage is my home now," I said, to make clear I understood very well what was going on. Then I looked up to Anderson. I think he smiled at me. I'm not sure, the sun was behind his back, creating a bright shine around him. "Father, why have I been brought to this place? Why did my parents abandon me to the church? Is it because I'm a bastard?" I couldn't help my hand trembling as it closed tightly around the book I was holding. Anderson hunkered down so he could talk to me on eye level. He was still a bit taller. "I don't need them anyhow," I proclaimed. "I don't even need friends." I gritted my teeth. I wouldn't cry now. No way. "Teacher," I said. "Mr. Anderson. I will become great. And once I've done so, I will have my revenge on all who have wronged me."

Anderson looked at me. He seemed to take me seriously and that was good. Renaldo showed me to a bedroom. I unpacked my few clothes and the rest came into a drawer. The books I had brought were a neat stack next to my bed. And that was it for that day.

* * *

For some reason, Anderson had not yet been informed of what had happened to me. Maybe he just hadn't found the time to read my file. With so many kids to tend to, I don't blame him.

I was woken by the other kids asking me all sorts of questions: Where I came from, if I was going to stay for long, who my parents were. I sent them away. They were disappointed and like that the first rumors started going around. I was not particularly good at making friends.

As I said, I didn't have a whole lot of trust in adults and children alike. In the evening, I met two girls who weren't appalled by my grumpy and inaccessible attitude. Maybe they were just too stubborn, but they were outsiders like me, mostly because they didn't speak Italian. Their names were Heinkel and Yumie (or Yumiko), who are my best friends to this day. They were two years younger than me and refused to give up when I sent them away. I just wanted to read in peace but they didn't let me. Instead, they wanted to show me how the sunset looked like from the roof. Back then, you could climb out of a window on the second floor to get up there. I'm pretty sure that way is blocked now, for safety reasons.

I'm not sure why I agreed to accompany them. Maybe because Yumiko looked like she would cry if I didn't. I thought I would just go there, go back, and then return to my book. I didn't want to get into trouble on my first day. I was wrong, like so often.

Eventually, I followed them. Heinkel showed the way and went first. Even as a child, she had impressive climbing skills. Then again, we didn't go up all the way, just to a small terrace that had become inaccessible by some renovation of the building. It was fairly easy, even for me. Which didn't mean I was not internally screaming in pain. But I didn't say anything and wiped the tears away before the others saw it.

The view was marvelous. The eternal city unfolded before us. The sunset reflected off the Sistine Chapel and where darkness had already fallen, lights were blinking. We could see cars driving around, hordes of tourists, a football game. Ferdinant Luke's is located on a hill, so we could see to what seemed like the end of the world. The seven hills of Rome created a wavy pattern to the giant city, the Tiber cutting a shimmering line into it, trees surrounding the suburbs. I sat in between the girls and we were all stunned. I even forgot my aching back for a while. We talked a bit, about where we came from and all that. I let slip that my parents abandoned me because I was a bastard. When Heinkel asked what that meant, I snapped at her and she dropped the topic. They didn't seem to hate me, at least. But what did I need friends for? I was very well able to take care of myself. So I tried to ignore them and concentrated on the view.

The sky became darker until Yumiko suggested we should go inside before we were caught. I felt a nervous twitch on my eye. That particular tic had set in after the gash from the belt had healed. It had been only a few days and I already hated it. I knew it wouldn't go away again. Another reminder of her. [It took the Major to get rid of it after all.]

So far I had tried to forget we were doing something forbidden. The more guilty I looked, the more likely it was that we were caught.

"Ah'd say thas ae guid idea." We all spun and I yelped at the pain. It was drowned out by the surprised sounds of the girls. Anderson had somehow managed to climb onto the terrace without us noticing him. He looked comically giant for the small space, but I didn't feel like laughing. He shook his head, equally amused and angered. "Ah'richt, let's get ye down fae here, dinner's ready." The girls giggled and started to climb down. I didn't move. My back hurt. A lot. More than that, I was frozen at the worst possible moment.

Anderson came towards me and grabbed my arm. I winced. His hand was so huge it seemed he could pick me up with two fingers. It's still a mystery to me how someone with hands like that can be so gentle at times. The grip hurt. It wasn't tight or anything, but there were the starters of a bruise when Chiara had dragged me to the office in Rome yesterday. I couldn't hide how scared I was, although I immediately cursed myself for not controlling my expression better.

Anderson looked at me and seemed confused. His hand slackened a bit. "Is there ae problem, lad?"

I shook my head. "No, Father. I'm sorry for causing trouble." I hastily walked past him and climbed down, a lot faster than my back was happy with. I just wanted to go somewhere I was not alone. In a group I was safe, at least temporarily. I was shaking, but I wouldn't show that either. Back then, all adults were the same to me, the same as Chiara at that, and this stereotype haunted me far into my teenage years.

I stayed away from the girls during and after dinner. When we were done cleaning up the table, Anderson asked us to accompany him to the office. I was shaking so badly I could barely walk, but somehow I managed to get myself together. All I could think of was how much bigger and stronger Anderson was than Chiara. So, we went to the office, Anderson sat down and offered us three smaller chairs. I crossed my legs and tried to sit up straight, although that hurt like hell. Drooping on a chair was another thing Chiara hated.

Anderson looked at us and shook his head again. He spoke English, probably because Heinkel and I at least partially understood it. The girls didn't speak much Italian, like I said. "Heinkel, Yumie. Ye twae willnae listen tae me when Ah say ye shouldnae go up there, will ye?" The girls looked each other and then unconvincingly tried to look guilty.

"I'm sorry, Vather Anderson," Heinkel said.

He frowned. "The Laird tells us not tae lie, lass." She winced and looked a bit more guilty now. Anderson looked a me for a moment and then turned back to the girls. The next sentences I didn't understand completely, partially because of his thick accent, partially because my English was not exactly good back then. But I heard my name and something about not dragging me into their mess, I think. Then the girls stood up and ran out. I was alone.

I stared at my hands. They were trembling. I winced and instinctively shied away when I felt a hand on my hair. My back screamed in pain, but I just clenched my teeth and said nothing.

"Can ye take off yer shirt?", Anderson asked. He spoke Italian now, so I understood him perfectly well. I wasn't even shaking anymore when I stood up and opened the buttons. My only hope was he wouldn't turn out as strong as he looked or would be careful. Someone of his physique could easily kill a slim child like me with a careless movement. I folded the shirt neatly and put it on the chair. I didn't meet his gaze, mainly because I would have had to look up what felt like five feet.

When I said in these three weeks I was in bed most of the time my bruises disappeared, that doesn't mean every last one. When I got better, Chiara still forgot herself from time to time. A slap here and there was normal. In comparison to the two years before it was heaven. Thanks to my natural tan it wasn't so obvious, but if you really looked, I was still covered in colorful spots, the remains of my old life.

Anderson knelt down in front of me and now I could see his face. He was furious, with something very close to a snarl on his lips. I could barely keep myself from flinching when he extended his hand. Instead, I went as rigid as I could, avoiding his gaze. Chiara had been a dog in more than one aspect. Looking into her eyes was not clever. I think I felt blood seeping into the bandage. I had taken care nobody saw me when I changed last evening and this morning, so it was the same as yesterday. Anderson stroked my hair again and I winced. I just couldn't help it.

"Turn around," he said. His voice was calm, but when I blinked, I could see cold fury in his eyes. Just like with Chiara when it got really bad. I turned around, my body feeling like I had swallowed a broomstick. For a few seconds, it was completely silent. I could hear my heart beat, the gallop of a fleeing hare on the field. I closed my eyes and prepared. "Hold still, aye?" I only winced a bit when he laid one of his pranks on my stomach. Then, in one swift movement, he ripped off the bandage. It was more like a giant band-aid, held by tape at the edges. I had sworn not to show weakness again, but what are promises like that worth in the end? I whimpered, tears of pain in my eyes. For a moment it was only Anderson who kept me from falling over. He led me to a chair I could hold on to. After a moment, I could breathe again and the pain dulled. This had gone better than expected. So far.

Anderson went to the desk and called someone. A few minutes later, Josephine came in. She gasped when she saw me. I didn't say anything while they discussed something, I'm not sure what. Then Anderson took my hand (it vanished completely in his, but at least the grip didn't hurt), and brought me to the bathroom. We took some corridors I'd never seen before, certainly not in the tour I was given the day before. Nobody used them. Over time, they became my sanctuary, the place I went to when I wanted to be alone. Only a few knew how to get there, so I could use them for just disappearing if I chose to. If I hadn't been so afraid of any punishment, they would have been perfect for pranks.

As I had expected, the wound was seeping blood again. At the edges, I could already see the first traces of the scar I would get from it. It took an eternity to get more or less clean, especially since I wasn't allowed to shower. Anderson waited outside in case I needed help, he said, but even if I did, I wouldn't have said so. I hurried, though. Nobody likes waiting and I knew what I got for it. Josephine brought my pajamas and asked if she could take a photo before we patched up the wound again. I nodded, though I didn't understand what that was good for. For the file, she said. I must have heard something in her voice that made me stop asking, although I don't remember what it was. So, only an hour later, I was clean, tired and more than happy to fall into my bed. Anderson asked if I would prefer to sleep with him tonight. I must have looked like I had seen a ghost. He immediately told me I didn't have to, it was my choice. I shook my head and the moment I felt I was free to go went back to the dormitory.

I have no idea what happened that night. I had a nightmare, from the first time Chiara had used the belt, I think. That's one of the most frequent ones. It's always the same, including Anderson's inexplicable presence. In my nightmares, he's not the one who wants to help. Rather the opposite. He calls me a failure, and a devil's child, an offense against God. I must have cried and vaguely remember pain waking me when one of the other boys shook me. Then Anderson came in, in giant striped pajamas I have to add, and carried me to his room. I woke up when his stubble tickled my face, my head in the nape of his neck. It was the first time in weeks lying didn't hurt my back.

* * *

Even after that, it took me long to figure out at least the adults in the orphanage wouldn't hurt me. The wound on my back closed, and I got along easier with everyone. Especially Heinkel and Yumie / Yumiko just didn't stop bugging me and eventually I gave in and began to spend time with them on my own accord. I could never get as close to them as they already were to each other, but some part – the part that was not stubbornly insisting I needed nobody – was glad I was not alone.

Still, I didn't like being touched, especially by the adults, and made that more than clear. I always snapped at Anderson when he tried. On some days I simply shied away without saying anything. A part of me that was already older and more mature knew he didn't deserve that. After all, it was me who wanted his attention and was always hovering around him when I was not in school, reading, or with Heinkel and Yumie / Yumiko. But he wasn't allowed to touch me. I flinched every time it happened unexpected. It was not so much the contact itself, just a reflex. Old habits die hard. I had been beaten into it for too long.

But, after months, I finally got a bit used to it. I stopped flinching when Anderson made an unexpected movement or stroked my hair. Speaking of which, I let it grow. Chiara had never allowed me to, and now I was rebelling for the first time. Sounds petty, I know. Aside of that, I look better with long hair. My bruises vanished completely and I tried to ignore the scar. When the other kids asked, I said I had been in an accident. Which was sort of true, I suppose. I went to the orphanage's school and was soon at the top of my class.

What didn't change was that I separated myself from the others. I didn't go play football with them, choir was not really my kind of thing (My voice sounds horrible.), and I spent more time in the library than outside. Also, there were a few boys that had begun to pick on me. As I said, I was no fighter, and I tried to avoid them as often as I could. Children are just as envious as adults when someone is cleverer than them. Most of the time I spent with bible studies or reading. I was trying to improve my English and looked into books about technology and physics. (My favorite read was still the bible, though, especially when I was upset.) And I upheld my reputation to be tough when it came to feelings. I never cried in front of my fellow orphans. Only once I was stupid enough to ask what my parents were doing. Anderson was a bit under stress that day, some controller was going to check on the orphanage or something, and told me a bit more harshly than necessary he didn't have time. I fled to the unused corridors, where I had deposited most of my books by then, and didn't come out until the evening, when Heinkel managed to find me. Anderson apologized for being so harsh and I got a tiny bit more chocolate cream than the others.

The summer came. I didn't really like Ferdinant Luke's, but it was the first home I had, in the classic sense. "Home", like a shelter, with people who actually cared for you. I only realized it wasn't so bad after all (it was way certainly way better than anything before), when I was told there was a couple that wanted to adopt me. They had the perfect background and would be great. I was going to meet them the next day.

I said No.

Anderson somehow got me to agree to at least meeting them once. It wouldn't be so bad, I told myself. I already knew what my decision would be, so I could at least help him a bit.

The first weird thing: Their name was Maxwell too. What are the chances, especially in Italy? Maybe that was one of the reasons they asked about me in the first place.

The second weird thing was that they looked like they could actually be my parents. Laura Biaggini Maxwell had a tan, dark, wavy hair and green eyes. Not as bright as Chiara's, but enough to startle me. For a moment, I really thought she had come back for me. But on the second glance she didn't look like Chiara at all. He face was rounder, and healthier, and kinder. She was slender and wore clothes much better cared for than Chiara's. And she had a beautiful, genuine smile.

I couldn't remember my father very well, but James Maxwell had short hair a much darker shade than Pietro. He was pale in comparison to Laura, and had blue eyes. When I came in, I was so startled Anderson had to push me gently so I would go on. James knelt down so we could talk on eye level. There was not much conversation. After a short "Ciao" I kept my stubborn silence.

Anderson sighed. "Ah said he's difficult," he told them in English. They already knew most about me, I figured. So when we sat down over biscuits and tea, I let them tell me who they were. Laura was a medical doctor working a bit outside Rome. James was an architect. He was originally from Vancouver, Canada. They were frank with me: If they adopted me, we would probably move to Canada at some point. Laura was infertile, that was the reason they wanted to adopt. After a while I decided to break my silence. I asked why they would want me instead of a smaller child.

Laura had smiled at me and said something I never forgot: "Because I think everybody deserves a happy life. And I'm not scared of taking chances." She basically told me she understood why I was being "difficult" in comparison to the other kids.

After two hours, I could go back to the others. My answer was still No, but a less determined No. I'm not sure how that happened. They seemed fairly nice at first. I liked how open they were. They didn't go too far with pitying me. I didn't need pity anyway. But that didn't change my conviction I would stay with my friends and Father Anderson. I was wrong again.

* * *

Did you ever notice how kids are rarely asked for their opinion? Well, especially when it came to where and with who they would live, Anderson's try of weakening my refusal was already the best the situation allowed. He tried to make it easier for me. It took two months, the summer holidays came. All papers were signed and I was informed they would pick me up in three days.

As you can imagine, I was terrified. Sure, they had visited me often, I got to know them a bit better, and all, but... I had tried to ignore everything they said about preparing all the papers. Chiara had been nice to me when others were with us. And now I should leave the only people that really cared for me?

Said day came and I had to bid farewell to my friends. Yumiko was crying, until Heinkel took her glasses and Yumie hissed at her. They hugged me. I didn't have a problem with that anymore. We all had tears in our eyes. Then I went to Josephine, Father Renaldo and Anderson of course. They promised I could write or call if I wanted to. Anderson picked me up and hugged me carefully. For him, everything that someone would normally do without second thought was carefully done, simply because he was so strong. Looking at the first weeks at Ferdinant Luke's this was not just a small gesture. He was the first adult I trusted to be alone with. By then I had learned his touch didn't mean any harm.

"Thas enough, Enrico," he said with a smile. Another thing I liked about him: He said my name. Chiara had rarely done so, only when she needed to call me out of a group. "Nae mair crying. Be happy." I wiped my face and nodded. As if I was crying. Pff.

"Arrividerci," I told everyone again. Then I walked over to the car, trying not to show how scared I was. James helped me climb on the bench and fasten the seat belt. They rolled down the window, so I could wave at my friends.  
"Don't forget us!", Heinkel shouted.

"I won't," I called back. We passed the gate and Ferdinant Luke's stayed behind.

The rest of the drive I sat in silence, staring out of the window. I'd never been that far away from my usual surroundings before. Laura and James didn't talk either, but cast me somewhat nervous glances. We arrived at the house. I had already seen photos, but it astounded me anyway. There were two floors. Downstairs was a hallway, the living room, the kitchen, a storage and another small room. Upstairs were two bedrooms and another bathroom. They showed me to the bedroom upstairs. It was twice as big as the one in the old flat. I even had a desk and a shelf for my books.

I won't go into detail, but I began to like my new home. We went shopping and for the first time, I could pick my own clothes. Laura asked if I wanted my hair shorter, but when I – hesitantly – shook my head, she accepted it without question. She still cut it a bit, but only because Chiara's cut was asymmetrical and she even asked me for my opinion from time to time during the process.

We got along. I tried my best to be friendly, obeyed their requests and so on. There were no problems. I didn't get the tiniest slap, even if I had done something wrong. Once I ran into Romeo again and I punched him. Admittedly, he tried to avoid me and I did it without need. These days I think he might have been in the same situation as I had been with Chiara. So, I got grounded, but considering I was inside most of the time anyway, that was not exactly a big punishment.

Nothing of that changed my distrust, though. Laura had tried to minimize the scar on my back with some oil she said would help. I had agreed, but most of the time she applied it I had been trying not to betray how uncomfortable I was. I still didn't like anyone touching me. Anderson and the girls were a big exception, Josephine and Renaldo as well. When James brought it up, I preferred to flee back to my books.

They were talking about moving to Canada and that thought scared me. If nobody knew me and looked out, I was just as helpless as before. And they were talking about Chiara. One evening - I was already supposed to be in bed -, I went downstairs to get a glass of water and overheard their conversation in the living room. It calmed me a bit that Laura was ranting – half in Italian, half in English – what a horrible person my biological mother was, how she could have done such a thing, the whole package. She also wondered what she could do so I was not as scared of proximity. I cringed a bit at that. I didn't want to admit I was, but of course they had noticed how much I secluded myself, how nervous I had been even when Laura examined my skinned knee I brought home one day. I had fallen into a thorn bush when I tried to catch a Frisbee and ripped my trousers. To my surprise, her first concern had been if it hurt. After taking care of my scratches, she had mended my jeans and even asked me which patch I'd like. I chose a rectangular one with gears and all that. Today, the word would be steampunk. Looked really nice. That day stayed in my memory because it was such a big contrast to what I knew from Chiara. I couldn't really relate them to what Father Anderson had done for me.

Anyway, Laura was angry. And then she said she wanted to sue Chiara. James calmed her a bit, but I really liked that idea. Sure, a seven-year-old had no real concept of a court, but I wanted her punished. And really, Laura and James went to a lawyer and asked if that was possible.

I might have made a bigger fuss over my nightmares than necessary. I even managed to get control over my aversion to physical contact and cuddled up to them at night. But it certainly did the trick. And it felt good to...

…

to have someone close. I still didn't trust them, but I wanted my revenge on Chiara. Otherwise I only needed to hold out until I was 18, then I could go away and do my own thing. Whatever I thought that was.

Let's make this short, it's getting late: I wasn't at most of the court meetings. That's not unusual in Italy. There's a charge and then proof, statements and all is presented by the lawyers. But there was one last meeting we all attended. That was the last day I saw Chiara before she turned up again two weeks ago. And that was exactly what I had been waiting for. I knew Chiara would be there. Everybody would. And I wanted her to have the worst punishment she could get. No matter how professional someone is, nothing convinces more than a heartbreaking show. Again this "children know more than they understand" kind of thing. Though I did understand, at least partially.

So, that morning Laura helped me to make myself presentable. I put my hair (it was down to my shoulders by then) into a ponytail, got a plain blue shirt and straight jeans and so on. That's my favorite style for occasions not really formal, but also not too casual.

When we came into the courtroom, Chiara was already sitting there, dressed up like a peacock, but still less than pretty. I think she didn't even recognize me for a moment. The long hair made quite the difference. The judge looked at us as well. Everybody did. When Chiara turned in our direction, I shied away from her and clung to Laura's hand. That was not all show. Seeing her upset me more than I had anticipated. Reflexes and all that. Chiara snorted and turned away as if disgusted. Laura looked daggers at her, but in favor of our case didn't say anything. She led me to the other side of the room, where I sat between my foster parents. It was a bit calming, their guarding presence around me. Back then I thought something like the lesser of two evils or so. By now it's hard to retrace my sentiments, although the events itself are still clear as day in my memory.

I sat through another round of showing all the evidence, which consisted mostly of the photos from my visit to the doctor, but also other photos and reports from the school nursery. Looked like I had been in their focus for longer than I thought. The judge went through the statement I had made for the lawyer, Chiara's statement (she didn't deny she had been a bit harsh with me from time to time, but pleaded for considering it as accidents where the really bad events were concerned), then it was time for the actual final remarks and they would decide. The prosecutor asked me and Chiara to step forward. I have no idea what for. He was the kind of guy who thought blood ties were the most important thing in the world, or so our lawyer said.

I only cuddled closer to Laura and made sure everyone saw my no doubt desperate green eyes. "Do I have to?" It was as quiet as a tomb, so I didn't have to talk loudly for everyone to hear me.

"It's alright," Laura tried to calm me and ran her hand over my hair. "We're right here."

I nodded slowly and stood up, pointedly hesitating. I walked over, casting nervous glances at Chiara. She was wearing a long dress that looked pretty expensive. Up to that day Pietro supported her. Just to keep it a secret that he had an unintentional son. Funny, since I had included his name in my statement. It never got read aloud, though. Never injured his career either, as far as I can tell.

And here we get to the point why I can't really oppose anyone who calls me backstabbing, scheming, spiteful, vindictive or malignant. It's all true and in most cases I don't lose any sleep over it. Depends on the situation, and who you ask. There are others who can confirm I can also be charming, considerate and lovely. Oh and loyal, as long as I think someone deserves it. The problem is, you only get so far with being nice. Additionally, in my line of work, nice people tend to end up dead and that would absolutely ruin my weekend plans.

The trial was two months before my eighth birthday. Children are supposed to be pure of heart, right? Well, Chiara had beat any innocence out of me when I was too young to understand it. So why should I apologize for the way I acted? She never apologized for making me that way.

Oh wait, she did. When she was begging me to remember who she was during the first interrogation. As if I didn't know. After twenty years she appears and wants to tell me I should pay a little respect to my mother. She really doesn't want to understand that I'm doing that. But as far as mothers go, she's not mine. She's just the same selfish, arrogant, nasty bitch as before.

I shouldn't get carried away. I still want to get a bit of sleep after this.

* * *

The prosecutor called in a pause for the trial and looked down to us, shooting Chiara a meaningful glance. I'm pretty sure her lawyer had told her exactly how to act and that was "friendly and cooperative". She even attempted a smile. Just like the day she left me.

"It would be a shame if you had to part like this," the prosecutor, an almost bald man with a giant nose, said. "There will be room for a short talk, if you choose."

I took a step back. My fear was no act, at least not completely. I didn't want to be alone with her. "No," I said.

Chiara smiled a bit more. "Enrico, tesoro, all of this was a misunderstanding, you know that. You can't do this to me. I'm your mother." (Right. That was the first time she used that "argument".)

I only shook my head. The persecutor left us a bit of space and Chiara was speaking quietly, so nobody heard what we were talking about. Most people used the pause for getting coffee or planning. She was asking me to take back my statement and all that. I felt Laura's and James' worried glance on my back. And a vague plan became a concrete idea. "Leave me alone, you hag," I hissed. "If you didn't want me, you shouldn't have fucked your cousin." She shouldn't have been surprised. I learned it from her, after all. I normally have an aversion to swearing, but saying that to her felt good. It's true after all. For a moment, she just stared at me, her mouth hanging open like a dead fish's. Then she slapped me square across the face, so hard I fell. In front of a whole court trying to nail her down for child abuse.

"You little piece of shit! You should have never been born!", she shrieked. My cheek was flaring, making my eyes water. I fled back to Laura, buried my face in her neck and started to cry. I'd love to say I was a great actor, but that would be a lie. I had expected the slap, hell, I had provoked it, but nevertheless it had scared me. For a brief moment, I had forgotten this period of my life was over.

"You said she wouldn't hurt me again," I sobbed, just loud enough for everyone to hear in the sudden silence. Chiara broke off her rant. I didn't see anything, but when Laura carefully made me let go and look at her, probably to determine if Chiara had injured me, I caught a short glimpse of my biological mother. She looked horrified. She had gotten herself in deep shit, and she knew it. Laura stroked my burning cheek, equally pale.

"It's alright, caro," she promised in a shaky voice. But her shock was already turning into rage. Her eyes were flaring in a cold green fire. "She won't. She'll never go near you again." I nodded and cuddled into her arms. Part of me was terrified. The other part had to hide a smile. James touched his wife's arm so she didn't freak out and said something. He was a bit better at containing himself. After a moment, Laura nodded, and he asked: "Tuo onore, can we go on? I think Enrico needs a bit of rest."

I'm not sure what got into me. The words came out all by themselves. "Mamma, when can we go home?" I think I was just as startled as Laura. But the smile on her face was beautiful, because it was so genuine. (And she is pretty, of course.)

No final remarks. The judge and everybody else needed for a conviction retreated for a while. It took around fifteen minutes, which means there was little to no discussion. Chiara was trying to comprehend what she had done. Her temper had gotten the better of her. And some part of her knew I had set her up. A seven-year-old had outsmarted her. Oh sweet, sweet revenge.

In the end, she got a prison sentence of seven years. The same amount of time I had been with her. I like to think it was not a coincidence. It's way too poetic for that. She had stolen the first seven years of my childhood, so she would lose the same amount of time in her life.

Chiara was taken away and my parents and I returned home. Dad carried me, although I would have been very well able to walk. We didn't talk too much about the case that day. I was tired and Mum put some of that oil on my scar again before she brought me into bed. Without noticing, I had grown used to her touch. Funny how habits define us, isn't it?

Just for the record, that was entirely person-related. Until I was fifteen or so and my hormones got confused for a while, I had to go through that whole process of mistrust – habit – acceptation – being comfortable with it with _every last person_ that got close to me. There was only one exception, but I really don't need to explain that.

* * *

 _Enrico rubbed his eyes. He had written a lot more, and on more topics, than_ _he had initially planned. He might not want to admit it, but once he had started writing, it had become something resembling fun. Or at least relief. Though he was not sure who he was telling that story to, including all the rhetorical questions. He looked at the time. Four o'clock in the morning. If he stayed up any longer, he didn't need to sleep at all. Today he had another very special interrogation planned at 9 o'clock, and a meeting at noon. Well, he could always postpone the interrogation. That wouldn't hurt his case. Maybe he should go on vacation for a couple of days, make a few visits. If that would help?_

* * *

Let's wrap this up. I had a really crappy childhood, until Chiara abandoned me. In retrospect, that was literally the best thing she could have done to me.

She was gone, we moved to Canada. Sure, I was less than happy about that, especially since I never got a reply from Heinkel and Yumie, because...

Ah, I'm not writing an autobiography, I want to go to bed. Last point. A life like mine leaves you with certain reflexes, I already covered that. Even though I tried to forget about it, some things still haunted me. I winced every time I heard the typical sound of a leather belt. It was a reflex, as I said. Chiara had never worn belts, so the sound could only mean one thing.

I'm not saying James is a bad person. He is a practical guy, an architect that would love to work on his own building site if he had the time. Maybe that's why most of his projects were hospitals and everything that needs to be really, really practical.

One day, I came home from school with a detention. It was a stupid story. I had gotten a paper plane and didn't catch it and a classmate slipped on it. The teacher thought I had done that on purpose and sent me home. Silly, I know. Anyway, I was telling Mum about it, and then somehow the conversation went on to the fact that I winced every time I heard a belt or scissors. Scissors because she had always cut my hair really short (not too skilled either) and although among the hate and beatings it had by far not been the most painful, it was some kind of symbol. There were a few other "triggers" (I'd laugh at the word if I weren't so tired), like when somebody I didn't know or didn't recognize touched me unexpectedly, but those were the most frequent. I didn't really want to talk about it, but I also didn't want to cut her off again.

Dad had come home only minutes after me and was unpacking. We had been in Canada for three weeks and I was not really used to the cold yet. I missed Italy. He heard the story while he was in the hallway and the rest of our conversation.

Mum frowned at something behind me. Then I heard James say: "Well, then we should show him how things are with us." The sound again. And I knew he had just unrolled a belt. I froze, my mind a panicked blank. A smaller, mean part of me was laughing at the terrified rest. _You exchanged one hell for the other. And here's no Father Anderson you can run to._

At least Laura looked shocked as well. "James, what the hell are you doing?", she snapped. I managed to turn around and got a look on a belt that looked exactly like Chiara's. It was the same model, down to the ornaments on the buckle. Believe me, I would recognize it even today.

He shook his head, a sinister determination on his face. "Quiet, woman," he ordered. "Turn around, boy." I did, shaking. I refused to cry. There would be more than enough time afterwards. Just then I noticed several bruises on Laura's arm. I hadn't seen them yesterday. She had been wearing long sleeves. For one moment, I gave in and shot her a pleading glance. Laura looked upset, and confused, and angry. But she didn't say anything. She didn't do anything. The clicking of scissors behind me. I clenched my teeth and kept quiet. I should have never left Italy behind, I thought. But some part of me had already resigned. The realization came way too late.

I almost yelped when something touched the scar on my back. "Look at me." James' voice had become softer. I turned around. It took me a lot of effort to raise my gaze from the floor. James offered me the belt and massive garden shears. I just stared at them as though they were dangerous snakes.

"This is the link to your past," he said. "The link to everything she did to you. I want you to take it and cut it to pieces. As many as you like. And with each cut you say "I don't need to be afraid." and "Nobody will hurt me." He looked me in the eyes. My hands were trembling when I took the belt. "It's not the same, just the same model," James explained. "But what does the trick is this." He tapped, gently, on my forehead. I flinched.

So I spent the next hour cutting the damned thing into tiny shreds, to small I almost cut myself a few times. And I repeated the two phrases over and over. "Nobody will hurt me. I don't need to be afraid." At some point, I stopped saying it out loud. I believed it, how unlikely that might sound. And it was the last time I cried over Chiara's deeds. Until today, obviously.

I was sitting on the living room floor and they were in the kitchen with the door closed. I don't think Mum and Dad knew I could hear them. But I did. It was a bit difficult to understand, but at least they were speaking Italian.

"Have you gone completely mad?", Mum snapped. I could imagine her pacing up and down and stabbing a finger at him. It's just a gesture, but one that startled me at first. She is the one with the temper. Dad is a lot calmer and rarely raises his voice.

"Laura, I know that was harsh, but it was the only way he can get over this. He needs a fresh start."

I stopped and put down the shears for a moment. Mum sounded like she was crying. "You don't understand. You didn't see in his eyes. Jamie... I've never seen a child that terrified." She paused to draw a shaky breath. "Promise you never do that to him again."

He sounded ashamed. "Of course not."

I picked up my work again. In the end, Dad even melted the buckle for me. It's a little figure in a drawer at home now. In my parent's house, I mean. I didn't bother to bring it back to Italy.

I don't blame him. For a day or two, I was angry, but that dissipated soon. Sure, the method was a bit questionable, but it worked. I stopped wincing at tiny but distinct noises after a few weeks. A few things remained until much later, but yeah, that was about it.

….

Crappy childhood, alright. The good part: It's over. Chiara never deserved that much of my attention. I've got better things to do.

* * *

 _Enrico put away the pencil. Finally. For something he thought to be a stupid idea, he had put a lot of effort in it. The leader of Section 13 stood up and stretched, feeling the scar on his back, even through his shirt. A reminder of where he came from. And what he had._

 _He got his coat and locked up the Iscariot HQ on his way out. He would dispose of the pages in the morning, just like he would dispose of a few other annoying matters. Maybe he would even read what he had written once again before he burned the pages, he thought as he walked back to the flat he shared with the only person he didn't mistrust in the beginning. For now he only wanted to sleep._

 _Which he did, after he fell into bed. Peacefully. Without a single bad dream. Of course, he had just been too tired to dream. Writing down his so-called childhood trauma didn't change a thing._

 _A devil's child. Well, if they should ever meet, he would kick said devil's butt._ _Enrico Maxwell was done with being looked down upon. Once and for all._

* * *

Opinions?

So here we go, everything went better than expected. Except I will have to revamp Renegade when it's done, because the short stories and later chapters added a lot of stuff that was never mentioned before. Besides, I've got a lot of short stories already done, and would love to upload them, but I can't for reasons of spoiler. Even this is kind of dancing on the edge.

When I was working on this, I realized how much people are over not being able to have kids, while there are peple who can and _definitely_ shouldn't. Maybe I'm too young to understand that kind of feelings, but just running with the facts: There are many children like Enrico in real life, who would deserve a better home. And there's overpopulaion of course. Just a thought.

I hope you enjoyed my story and maybe give me a bit of feedback? Ciao!


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